Dead Worthless
by AoifeNZ
Summary: AH - Sookie is a young criminology student who develops an unusual friendship with a murderer on death row. NOT A ROMANCE.
1. Chapter 1

This is a story that I've been thinking about for a long time, and it's about a topic that's important to me. I should point out again that this is not a romance, and there will be no sex, especially not between Eric and Sookie.

If you read and enjoyed Viking vs Vampire, you may not enjoy this story, as it is not at all similar.

I also have to warn you that I may never update this, and if I do, it will probably take me a long time - this is not a request for reviews, but a reference to how full my life is at the moment. I've only published this to get it out of my head.

Obviously, all the credit for the characters goes to CH.

* * *

The first time I entered a prison will be forever etched on my brain.

As an honours student in my fourth year of a degree in criminology, I thought I knew a lot about the criminal justice system. But I knew nothing.

Having spent a long time preparing, and talking to my professors about it, I thought I was prepared for the things I would see, and the emotions I would feel. I wasn't.

And yet for all the shock, and fear, and desperate pity I felt from the moment I set foot in that prison, the main thing that sticks in my mind about that day is meeting Eric for the first time.

I had already been at the Ohio State Penitentiary for several hours, interviewing death row inmates. I was doing research for my honours thesis, and I'd been planning this process for a long time. There had been endless approvals to seek, and consent forms, and discussions with my supervisor about the questions I would ask, and the expectations I had. The six hour drive from Cincinnati had dragged, so excited was I about finally starting my project.

My enthusiasm had taken a real hit since then. The prison guards were more intimidating than my interview subjects, and the brief, relatively inoffensive search I had been subjected to on the way in had left me feeling violated and edgy. I'd clung to the professionalism I prided myself on, and my hopes of writing a truly original thesis – not many students went to the lengths I had.

The interviews I'd conducted had done a lot to reassure me of the value of my visit. Most of the men had been very open with me, and I had some truly complex cases to analyse and include in my essay. John Quinn and Bill Compton in particular had caught my interest, though for very different reasons, and JB du Rone had left me feeling deeply troubled.

But as well as providing me with some excellent essay material, these conversations had left me feeling sick, tired, and overwhelmed. I had one interview left, and my nerves were positively jangling, as a combination of the stress of the day so far, and the fact that this man had the longest, and most intimidating criminal record of those I'd seen so far. Oh sure, there were a few more violent offenders on death row, but none of them had signed my consent form.

I noticed I was compulsively tapping my pen against the recording device in front of me, and I held myself still with a conscious effort. Embarrassed, I snuck a look at the prison officer sitting at the other end of the room. He was there to keep an eye on me, or perhaps to protect me, but he didn't seem to be paying any attention. I looked away again, and in preparation for the interview, I thought through what I knew about Eric Northman.

Eric had been involved in many different criminal activities, with the notable exception of sexual offences. He'd begun offending at a very young age, and he'd murdered a lot of people before the law caught up with him, when he was incarcerated at the age of twenty seven. Most of his victims were frequent and violent offenders like himself – most, but not all.

There was Shirley Hennessey, a middle-aged road worker who'd ended up in the wrong place, at the wrong time while on his way to work in the early hours of the morning. Debbie Pelt was another victim, the nineteen year old girlfriend of one of Eric's associates, Alcide Herveaux. Following a fight with Alcide, Debbie had threatened to turn the two men into police – Eric had ensured that she never would.

But to many, his most shocking crime was the murder of four year old Cody Cleary. Cody had lived with his mother, but was spending a rare night at his father's apartment at the time of the murder. Eric had intended only to kill the father, but Cody had surprised him, and Eric had not wanted to leave a witness.

I knew I would have to keep my composure while talking to Eric about his crimes, but my commitment didn't falter. I felt, perhaps naively, that I was ready for this project and what it involved, and the research was really important to me. So I shoved aside my nervousness and mentally prepared myself as best I could, striving to look calm and professional as the door to the interview cell opposite opened again.

Eric Northman sat down across from me, and I looked at him through the thick glass. He'd been handcuffed when he arrived, but his hands were free now. He was wearing the same bright orange, short-sleeved shirt and long blue trousers as the other death row inmates. He had blue eyes and short, thick blond hair parted neatly down the middle. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and about the most handsome man I'd ever seen.

I didn't feel the tiniest spark of attraction.

After a day spent interviewing convicted murderers, in the grim surroundings of the prison, I couldn't have mustered any sexy feelings if I'd tried. And Eric was cold as ice – his pretty face did nothing for me.

He stared back at me, expressionless, and for a moment I desperately wanted to just stand up and walk away. I made my body relax, and I swallowed, and then I picked up the wall mounted phone.

He picked up his end, and smiled at me. It didn't reach his eyes.

I switched on my audio recorder.

"Thank you for seeing me today," I began, as I had with the others.

"What do I get out of this?" He asked, interrupting me.

I was suddenly very glad that I was recording this. I didn't like where this was going, and none of my lecturers had covered this situation when talking about conducting interviews.

"It stated on the consent form that there would be no compensation for this interview. In fact, I'm not allowed to offer you money, or anything of value."

I felt better having reminded him of the rules, and the conditions of the interview. He couldn't argue with that.

"I don't want money. I want your help with something."

He didn't seem to have been the least bit deterred by my words. My anxiety increased, and I felt a tense smile tugging up the corners of my mouth.

"Well I'm sure that there's someone here at the prison who can help you, a social worker or a volunteer, maybe."

"I've asked all those people. They didn't try hard enough." He didn't sound angry about the lack of effort, just very definite that whoever had tried to help him could have done more. "There's no one else. You want an interview, so you can do this for me."

In that moment, I didn't feel any sympathy for him, and I didn't even consider his request. The situation was making me very uncomfortable – more uncomfortable than I already had been, anyway. I felt that I needed to put a stop to the conversation.

"I'm sure they all did everything they could, Mr Northman, and I doubt that I could do any better. Now, I'm really just here for an interview, and I think that we should move on to my questions, if that's alright with you?"

Upon hearing my words, he looked defeated, and upset. It was the first genuine emotion he'd shown so far. As quickly as I'd seen it though, it was gone, and he was back to being cold and indifferent.

"Your consent form also said that I could withdraw my consent at any time, without giving a reason. I wish to do so now."

"Of course," I said, taken aback, but trying to seem cool and collected, "That's fine. Thank you for your time."

I made myself smile at him, before replacing the phone receiver, and turning off my recorder. I gathered my papers, and stood, nodding at the prison officer in the room with me. The guard was watching this time, and he moved to the door, waiting for me to leave with him.

I looked back at Eric once more before I left the room. He was still seated, and looking down with a bored expression, waiting to be returned to his cell. I felt a searing stab of disappointment, and anger – anger at myself for failing somehow, and at Eric, for stringing me along and letting me down. But that last emotion was strange to me, and alarming. I gave myself a mental shake, tried to wipe Eric from my mind, and followed the guard out. Out of the room, and out of the prison.

I got to my car, and gripped the steering wheel, proud that my hands had stopped shaking. I took a moment to remind myself that I had learned a lot of valuable information that day. I got out my recording device, and looked at it, feeling its solid form in my hand, and knowing that my thesis was in there somewhere. Getting Eric's story would have been great, but I didn't have it, and it wasn't the end of the world. I had what I needed.

I switched on my headlights – it was getting dark already, due to the time of year. Then I made the short trip to the hotel I was staying at overnight.

The first thing I did after checking in was to phone my brother. Jason had shown a rare concern for me when I'd told him about my plans for the weekend, and had made me promise to call him and let him know I was ok.

The phone rang and rang until the answering machine cut in. I hung up, since I knew he hardly ever checked his messages. I decided to try calling once more, as I didn't want to receive a call from him in the middle of the night. This time, he answered almost straight away.

"Hello!" He sounded irritated.

"Hey, it's Sookie"

"Wha...? Oh! I forgot you were calling."

He still sounded annoyed, which made me a bit short when I replied, "If you're busy, we don't have to talk."

"Ah..."

I heard a few people in the background, and realised he was entertaining his friends. I tried to cut him some slack, and said more kindly, "Don't worry, we can talk another time."

"No! No, um, how are you?" The sounds of his friends faded, and I assumed he'd moved to another room.

"I'm fine, it was... good." I still didn't feel great about the whole experience.

"None of those low lifes tried anything, did they?"

"Jason, there was a thick glass window between us, not to mention there was a prison officer watching the whole time. Of course they didn't try anything."

"Well, I still don't like the idea of my little sister going into a prison and chatting with scumbags. Are you sure about being a chronologist?"

"A criminologist," I corrected him automatically, as I had on so many occasions, "And yes, I'm very sure. I love studying criminology, and I'm good at it."

"Mhm..." He sounded sceptical of my interest, or perhaps my ability, "What do, uh, 'criminologists' do, anyway?"

"There are lots of great career opportunities," I replied, a bit defensive. He'd touched on a sore spot, as I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do once I graduated.

"Sookie, you're smart, why don't you study to be a lawyer like mum was?"

"Why don't _you_?" I shot back, stung by his suggestion that studying law would be somehow more worthwhile. Then I cringed at how childish I sounded – why did arguments with my brother always wind up making me feel like I was ten years old again?

Jason just laughed, "Shit Sookie, reckon I'll leave all that brainy stuff to you, and stick to PT." Jason worked as a personal trainer, and was quite successful.

"So how are you, anyway?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Oh you know, same as usual. Hey Sookie, I'm kind of busy over here, so if we're done talking..."

"Of course, I was just calling to let you know I got home safe."

"Great, well if you're sure."

"Yes, I'm sure. You go back to whatever you were doing. Thanks for talking though." I was at least partially sincere. I didn't have much family, and I didn't talk to Jason as often as I'd like. I just wished we didn't have to have the same conversation, every time we talked.

A short while later I had dinner, such as it was – I'd brought a selection of snacks with me from Cincinnati. While I ate, I got out my recorder to start listening to my interviews, since I planned to get in a few hours of work before I went to bed. Some people might think it was odd to listen to interviews with convicted murderers while I ate, but I was pretty much inured to grisly stories by now. While the prison environment itself had shocked me, the interviews had actually been less disturbing than some of the accounts I'd read as part of my studies. As the words of my first interviewee started playing, I munched on a handful of chips, the open packet cradled between my knees.

I had intended to start at the beginning and take notes as I went through all the recordings, but I found myself impatiently skipping through much of my conversation with the first inmate, Clancy. And the next, and the next. I pressed the stop button, frustrated – obviously I wasn't in the right frame of mind to concentrate. While I'd been trying to avoid thinking about it, I knew that what I really wanted to listen to was the non-interview with Eric Northman. There was nothing to be gained by listening to what he'd said, since I obviously couldn't include any of it in my essay. But I had a nagging desire to listen to it again, and to work out what had gone wrong. I'd been so shocked at the time, that I really hadn't had the chance to think about my response to him. Should I have said something different?

I gave in, and kept skipping forward till I found him.

... "Thank you for seeing me today."

"What do I get out of this?"

"It stated on the consent form that there would be no compensation for this interview. In fact, I'm not allowed to offer you money, or anything of value."

"I don't want money. I want your help with something..."

I rewinded it.

... "I don't want money. I want your help with something..."

And again.

... "I want your help with something."

With a conscious effort, I switched the recorder off at last, and pushed it away. While it hadn't affected me at the time, I was now feeling concerned about his request for help. In fact, if I was honest, I was feeling a little guilty. Away from his cold expression and the frightening prison interior, I could hear the pleading in his voice.

I reminded myself that I had been told the prisoners may try to manipulate me. No doubt this man could put on the right tone of voice any time he wanted. And I told myself firmly that there couldn't possibly be anything that _I_ could help him with, which he couldn't ask someone working at the prison to do for him.

It seemed ridiculous that after my very first visit to a prison, the inmate who was sticking in my mind the most was the man who had refused to talk to me. Eyeing the recorder distastefully now, I picked up a science fiction book I'd brought with me. So much for that start I'd hoped to make on my essay.

I didn't pick up my recorder again that night, and I left for Cincinnati early the next day. I was still determined to dive straight into my essay, just... not right then.

I arrived back at my apartment in the late afternoon, completely exhausted. When I trudged through the front door, overnight bag slung over my shoulder, I saw my roommate, Amelia, sitting on our sofa with a bowl of popcorn, and watching CSI.

She turned to me and raised the bowl, "Oh, hey, welcome back. Popcorn?"

"Thanks, in a sec," I replied, nodding at my bag.

I quickly dropped it off in my bedroom and then headed back to the living room, sinking onto the sofa and groaning in relief.

Amelia turned the volume down, "Tough weekend huh? Tell me about it."

"It was tough – really tough," I replied honestly, "but interesting. Definitely worthwhile."

"Neat. So, what were they like? What did they say?" She watched me avidly, waiting for details. Amelia had a ghoulish streak, and was always hoping I'd tell her about hideous crimes I'd heard discussed in class. But I hoped she was also asking because she cared about me.

"They were all very forthcoming – they seemed to have a lot to say. I'm pretty sure some of them were being dishonest, but they were happy to answer all my questions..." I trailed off at the end, thinking of the one inmate who hadn't answered even one of my questions.

"What? What is it?"

It would be a relief to talk about Eric with someone else, and get their opinion on the situation. "There was this one guy..."

"Oooh, was he hot?" She asked me, with a cheeky grin, leaning her chin on the palm of her hand.

"He was scary," I answered, thinking of the way he'd looked at me.

"Oh. Well yeah, I can imagine. Ugh." She shuddered dramatically.

I felt discouraged now, but I continued on gamely, "He asked me for help."

Amelia gasped, and whispered excitedly, "Oh my god, did he ask for... drugs?"

"No-"

"He wanted you to carry a message to one of his gang members? Bring him a gun? Retrieve his stash of money?" She was almost jumping up and down on the sofa now.

"Amelia!"

Thankfully, she had the grace to look sheepish, "Sorry, too much CSI, I guess. What did he want then?"

"I don't know... I told him I couldn't help him." Hearing how that sounded, I wanted to curl up in shame. Saying it out loud, I couldn't believe how heartless I seemed. I couldn't even look at Amelia, as I was sure she wouldn't understand.

"You go girl!" She surprised me by saying, "Who does this guy think he is, asking for favours? Pffft."

Having braced myself for a completely different reaction, I was surprised into silence for a moment. Then I tried to explain my concern, hesitantly, "But what if he really needs help? I feel like maybe I should have done more."

"Nah," She said casually, "You definitely did the right thing, don't worry about it." She smiled reassuringly and patted my hand. Then she picked up the remote and gestured at the TV, "Some CSI to take your mind off it?"

"I've got some work to do, but you go ahead." I didn't hate CSI as much as I used to, now that Amelia had stopped asking my opinion on every episode. But it really wasn't something I enjoyed watching.

I'd love to say I started my essay instead of watching TV, but I actually spent the rest of the evening finishing that book I'd read the night before. Then I got to bed early, rationalising that I'd be in great form the next day to get some serious work done.

Of course, I didn't. It was Tuesday before I faced up to the problem. The last time I'd gone three days during term time without studying was in my first year, when I got so drunk for a friend's birthday that I was hungover for most of a week.

And yet I kept telling myself that I was just processing all the information I had, thinking of how best to use it. Or I deserved a short break, and I had plenty of time to get started.

Wednesday morning, I finally talked to my thesis supervisor, Claudine Crane.

When I'd laid out everything that had happened, emphasising my concern for Eric, she looked at me hard, and then suggested, "I think you should consider a couple of sessions with a counsellor."

I looked at her, disbelieving, and her expression became more understanding.

"Sookie, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with you. I just think that this prison visit was difficult for you, and you would benefit from some professional counselling."

I almost started crying, not out of sadness, but from frustration. It was an embarrassing habit of mine that I cried when I was angry, and I struggled to keep my composure now in front of Claudine. I valued my reputation, and didn't want to be thought of as overly emotional.

"Please, what do you think I should do about Eric's request?" I forced out, slowly and deliberately.

"I think you should put it behind you, and talk to a counsellor," she said earnestly.

"I don't want to put it behind me," I insisted, still trying to moderate my tone, "I don't think I can."

Claudine gave me a wry smile, and looked sympathetic as she shrugged, and replied, "So write to him, if you have to."

I realised that that was exactly what I'd wanted to hear.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** This chapter is brought to you by a mild case of food poisoning. I figured as I couldn't do anything useful, I might as well write fanfiction. If there are any sentences which trail off into nothing, you will know why._  
_

Thanks for the reviews for last chapter - it is encouraging to know that there are plenty of people out there who enjoy reading about an Eric who is interesting, rather than perfect. Also, thanks PMR and FiniteAnarchy for the tips you've both given me :)

All the characters were created by Charlaine Harris, so thanks CH!

* * *

_Dear Eric,_

That was how my letter started. Unfortunately that was all I'd written so far.

I'd spent quite some time deliberating over how to address him. When I'd met him at the prison, I'd called him 'Mr Northman', both to be respectful, and to establish a professional distance from him. Now, however, I wanted it to be clear that I wasn't writing to him as a researcher, but as a concerned member of the general public. On the other, other hand though, I didn't want to come across as being too familiar. I certainly wouldn't want him to think I was one of those people who regularly wrote to death row inmates, hoping to be friends.

Who knew such a tiny sentence could cause such a big headache?

Having finally settled on 'Dear Eric', I then had to dash to the counselling appointment Claudine had talked me into. I may not have been particularly enthusiastic about the idea, but it would be rude to be late.

I'm pretty sure that Dr Ludwig saw right through my bright smile and casual demeanour. On numerous occasions she fixed me with a hard stare, and zeroed in on exactly the questions I didn't want to answer. And yet, to my surprise and relief, she announced at the end of the session that we'd covered everything, and she didn't see any need for me to come back 'until the next time'. She emphasised that last bit, and added that I knew where she was if I wanted to talk.

I couldn't say I felt any different afterwards – but it had been kind of nice to talk about my experience to someone who wasn't Amelia, or my brother. Maybe that had been the point.

Making my way through the halls of the criminal justice building, I had to weave my way through a large crowd of people. I checked my watch, and it was almost four – everyone was heading to their next lecture. Nearing the exit, and rifling around in my bag for my car keys, I saw Claudine going in the opposite direction. I gave her a little wave, and she nodded at me, smiling slightly. I wondered how she really felt about my concern for Eric, and whether it would count against me. I felt a pang of concern, as she would have a lot of control over my final grade. But I'd made the decision to contact Eric, and I wasn't going back on it now. I'd just have to write a really, _really_ good essay.

I'd just reached my car, when I caught movement in my peripheral vision. I looked up to see a man jogging towards me, waving. Seeing who it was, I had an urge to hop in my car and drive away, but that would only make our next meeting more unpleasant.

"Bobby," I said cautiously, as he approached.

Bobby Burnham was in all of my classes, a high-achiever who saw me as a rival. I wasn't interested in competing.

"Sookie," he replied with a tight smile, "Having a good day?"

"It's ok," I shrugged, "you?"

"Yeah, I'm have a great week, actually."

He waited expectantly for the appropriate follow up question. I knew what he was getting at, and I took a certain pleasure in feigning obliviousness.

"Well I'm real happy for you Bobby," I said, and I unlocked my car door, preparing to head off.

"How did you go in the test?" he blurted out, having given up on getting me to provide him with an opening.

He was referring to a crim test we'd sat a month ago. The results had been released a couple of days ago, while I'd been absorbed by pretending not to be thinking about Eric. I'd got an A-. Bobby would love that.

"I got a mark I'm satisfied with, though there's room for improvement." I said cheerfully, "Now I really have to get going, I've got a lot of work to do on that research essay this evening."

I didn't know what subject Bobby had chosen, since he hadn't talked to me about our essays since he found out about the research I was doing for mine. In fact, he hadn't talked to me at all for two weeks after that conversation.

Bobby looked a lot less happy now, and made no attempt to keep me talking when I hopped in my car. As I drove off, I realised that I'd just sunk to his level. Damn.

But at least I'd got away before he could interrogate me about percentages. And Maria would enjoy hearing about this latest interaction. She was a friend of mine who was also in some of my classes, but she wasn't blessed with as much of Bobby's attention as I was.

Amelia was out when I got home, and I went straight into my room, throwing down my bag on the bed and pulling out the folder with my barely-started letter to Eric. Sitting down at my desk, I glanced guiltily at the text books and articles piled in the corner. I hated being behind in my school work.

Luckily, the rest of the letter flowed more easily now that I'd settled on the beginning. There wasn't much to say, really:

_Dear Eric,_

_We met recently when I was conducting research for my university studies. You asked for my help, but I was not in a position to be able to assist you._

_However, now that I have finished that particular research project, I would like to hear your request. If there is something I can do – within reason – I will do it._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Sookie_

I cursed when I realised I needed to include my address. Such an obvious detail, and it had completely escaped me. I hesitated, pen poised over the page. It wasn't that I thought he was going to suddenly turn up on my doorstep one day if he knew where I lived, but I'd been told on many occasions not to give out any personal details to prisoners. Plus, this whole exercise was making me jumpy, I almost felt as though I should be typing the letter rather than handwriting it – which was completely ridiculous.

Annoyed at myself for not thinking about the address issue earlier, I opened my laptop and hopped online, checking out the availability and pricing of post boxes nearby. I was mollified when I discovered I could get the smallest size for less than twenty dollars. It would only be for three months, but I couldn't imagine needing it for longer than that. I reserved one at the post shop nearest the university, figuring I could bring in the required documentation and post the letter at the same time.

I put everything in my bag for the next day, and then sat down at my desk again. Despite what I'd told Bobby, I wouldn't be doing any research today – I had far too much reading to catch up on for class. I sighed, then resolutely took the first textbook from the pile, and got started. It would be a long night.

After having not nearly enough sleep, I got up early the next day and went straight to the post office before my first lecture. I handed the letter over with a great sense of relief, and strolled back to my car feeling light-hearted, enjoying the crisp winter air. But sitting at a red light, wondering what Eric's response would be, I realised something that had been nagging at me – I hadn't thought this through. At all.

I had seized upon Claudine's suggestion of writing to Eric, and then ploughed straight ahead, convinced of the rightness of my course. I was so sure I had to help him, that I hadn't stopped to examine the urge, or give much thought to the consequences.

Pulling into a car park, I remained in my car, taking my hands off the steering wheel and folding them in my lap. I stared at my hands, thinking things through – though it was a bit late now. I imagined telling those I cared about that I had written a letter to a child murderer on death row who I'd just met, promising to do what I could to help him with some unspecified problem. Somehow I didn't think they'd congratulate me for my selflessness. In fact, I doubted they would understand at all, or want to. And what had I set in motion by inviting Eric to communicate with me, to make requests of me. He was a dangerous man, and I shouldn't lose sight of that fact simply because he was behind bars. The hairs on my arms pricked up, and I felt sick, wondering if I had made a terrible mistake.

A bang on my window made me jump so high, I would have hit the roof if I hadn't been strapped in. Seeing my friend Maria standing outside and laughing at me, I relaxed, and gestured for her to step back so I could open the door.

"What's got you so spooked?" She asked, still grinning.

I pulled my bag off the passenger seat and locked the door behind me as I answered her, "There is just no way I can cover it all before class. Want to get coffee after?"

Maria was one of the few people who might actually understand why I'd sent that letter, and it was really good to see her.

"Wait, is there really something up with you Sookie?" She sounded concerned now, rather than amused.

"Not really. Maybe."

"We can skip class and go straight for that coffee if you want?"

"No way, I didn't stay up half the night preparing for class so I could miss it."

Though I could see how curious she was, Maria managed to keep her questions to herself for the duration of our lecture. But she practically dragged me to the nearest cafe afterwards.

As we waited for our coffees, she got the conversation started. "What's wrong Sookie?"

"You know I had those interviews at the prison over the weekend..."

Her concern was replaced with enthusiasm, and she interrupted me, "Oh my god, yes, I was so excited to hear about that, and then I didn't see you all week! I want to hear everything!"

By the time I'd told her most of the story, we were sitting at our table, empty coffee cups in front of us. Maria's enthusiasm was infectious, and reminded me how thrilling it had been to conduct my interviews with real murderers, trying to get inside their minds and find out what made them tick. Until Eric scared the crap out of me and pricked my conscience, all at once.

Maria, however, was very relaxed about the whole thing, which made me feel reassured.

"Sookie, honestly, I'm not at all surprised. Of course you would go in there and feel sorry for the most dangerous criminal on death row."

"I don't feel sorry for him, I feel responsible, because he reached out to me."

"I know, you're right, I phrased it wrong. But a lot of people wouldn't feel any responsibility at all towards a child murdering career criminal. Hell, _I_ wouldn't have anything to do with the guy, he sounds like trouble – and I'll bet Claudine is gonna be so pissed off at you."

"Actually, I already talked to her, and she gave me the idea to write to him."

Maria looked sceptical, and I added sheepishly, "I think she might be disappointed in me though. She sent me to counselling."

Maria cracked up, and I couldn't help but join in. It felt good to laugh at my problems.

"Seriously though," she continued when we'd finished laughing, "I don't know if you're doing the right thing. You can't know if it's a mistake until you go ahead and do it. I wouldn't. But I understand why you would. You've spoken to your supervisor, and seen a counsellor, and you still feel like you have to help this guy. So what's the point in second guessing yourself now? Would you get that letter back if you could?"

I had to think about this for a moment, since that's exactly what I'd been wishing I could do, almost since I'd sent the damn thing.

"No," I said at last, "If I could get it back, I'd just end up sending it again."

"Good for you Sookie, you're not going to get any judgment from me."

She smiled as she said that, but I realised that there was a warning behind her words.

"You think some people will judge me?" I asked unhappily, having already thought about this myself.

She reached across the table to put her hand on mine, looking at me seriously, but compassionately, "I think you need to be real careful about who you talk to about this."

I looked away, out the window, and sighed, "You're right."

"Hey, cheer up. You can talk to me about it. And maybe Claudine."

We were both silent for a bit, before she veered off into a conversation about some of our other friends, and then I told her about seeing Bobby the day before, which made her swear and laugh.

After we went our separate ways, Maria to another lecture, and I to the library, I thought more about what she'd said. Her perspective had been helpful, though she hadn't exactly allayed my fears, and I was still full of uncertainty.

It was times like this I really missed my Gran. I would have given anything to hear her opinion, but she wasn't around to ask anymore, as she'd passed away more than two years before, part way through my first year at university. She'd raised Jason and I like her own children since our parents had died when I was eight, and she was the best person I'd ever known.

Remembering her made me feel sad and serene at the same time. And without her even being there, she gave me the answer I needed. She'd say that helping Eric was the Christian thing to do. Though I hadn't been to church in a few years, my religion was still an important part of my identity, and my past. My Gran had been part of a church group which provided various forms of assistance to people in the community who no one else cared about. In fact, they had even had a pen pal program for prisoners who didn't have any family or friends to correspond with. She had always talked to me about the importance of helping those in need, and insisted that it wasn't our place to judge anyone.

Well, Eric was certainly in need, since no one else would have anything to do with him. And he'd already been judged for his crimes, by an institution with far more authority than I had. My opinion of him as a person hardly mattered to anyone, least of all him.

I sent a silent thank you to my Gran for continuing to provide me with guidance when I needed it most. Then I resolved to think no more about Eric until I heard from him – _if_ I heard from him. Maria was right when she said there was no way of knowing yet how this would turn out, and there was no point in second guessing myself when I'd already acted on my decision.

As it turned out, it was two weeks before I had cause to think of Eric again. The time in between was pleasingly productive, as I was no longer hampered by a nagging conscience. Following Maria's advice, I'd told no one else about the letter I'd sent, and Amelia didn't ask me any more questions about the prison visit.

I hadn't been planning on checking my PO box for at least a month, as I wasn't expecting a quick reply. But when I found myself walking past the post office on my way to the shops one morning, I decided to take a quick look, just in case. I was surprised to find a letter, and my stomach churned as I pulled it out, and saw my name and PO box address handwritten on the front in neat printing. I didn't want to wait to read it, so I tore it open as I walked back to my car, the grocery shopping forgotten for the moment.

Inside was a short letter written in more of the same handwriting:

_Dear Sookie,_

_I have a younger brother who I have not spoken to in many years. I would like to contact him, but I am told that he is nowhere to be found. _

_His name is Sam Northman, and he will be 30 years old now, if he is still alive. We grew up in Shreveport, Louisiana, though I do not know whether he has remained in the area. I suspect not._

_Eric Northman _

I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't that. Did he not have other family who could put him in contact with his brother? Why did he suddenly want to see him again now, after so many years? Why did he think this brother would want to see _him_? And why was he so convinced that I could find this guy, when no one else had?

These questions aside, I was actually relieved that it was such an innocent request. It would have been nice if he'd given me a bit more to go on, but maybe that was really all the information he had about this Sam Northman – which seemed kind of sad.

By the time I got home, I'd already started making a strategy for finding Eric's long lost brother. I didn't know the first thing about finding people, but I could google as well as anyone, and if that failed to turn up any useful information, there were people at the university I could talk to. And then there was Finn. I didn't enjoy asking him for things, but I knew he would have a lot of useful contacts, and other resources.

I waved to Amelia as I rushed through the living room, letter in hand. Then I chucked Eric's letter on my desk, and got my laptop out. This would be an interesting challenge, and I liked a challenge.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **

Hello again :)

This chapter takes up the story three weeks after the last one. I'm not entirely sure, but I think we're part way through October now.

If this seems disjointed, that's because I wrote it in tiny increments, in between studying for approximately eleventy million exams. Yes, I did awesomely, thanks for asking.

And thanks CH for inventing such fascinating characters.

Enjoy! Or not!

* * *

I was woken by my phone ringing. I looked at my clock, and huffed. It was 7:30 am, on a Sunday. I was determined to take a day off, and I had been planning to sleep in.

I immediately felt more awake though when I saw who was calling – Finn. I'd asked him about two weeks ago to find out anything he could about Sam Northman from Shreveport, Louisiana. This was the first I'd heard from him since.

"Finn?" I answered the phone.

"Sookie, how are you?" He replied, his voice caring but formal, as it usually was.

"I'm good, school's going well. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm just fine, can't complain. Listen, I hope I didn't wake you up, I... It was the best time to call."

"You mean, Branna's gone out?" I said, mostly without rancour. I'd had plenty of time to get over the fact that his wife wasn't comfortable around me. She always tried to be polite, at least.

"Yes," he admitted, sheepish.

"How's the rest of your family?"

"They're doing very well – Niall just started a new Job, which he's enjoying so far."

"That's great. And Dermot?" I'd always got on best with him.

"Well, he's stressed – you know how it is I suppose, being at university yourself."

"Oh yes, I know all about that!" I tittered awkwardly, the casual friendliness feeling forced. "So, did you find anything?" I got to the point, without inquiring after his third son, Murry. Frankly, I didn't give a damn what _he _was up to. He'd made my life miserable in the year or so after my parents had died – more miserable than it was already, I should say.

"No luck I'm afraid. I ran some background checks - no criminal record, no credit history, nothing."

"Oh. Well, don't worry about it," I said, not quite managing to disguise my disappointment, "thanks for trying."

"I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful."

"No, don't be silly. At least I know that's one avenue that's been investigated. I'll keep looking, he'll turn up somewhere. Really, thanks Finn."

"Take care, Sookie."

I could tell that he was worried about what I was doing. He'd never been one to question my choices though. I guess he didn't feel he had the right to, which was probably a good thing. And kind of sad.

"I will. You too. Bye."

I hung up, and sighed loudly to myself. Three weeks of searching for Sam Northman, and I'd found out exactly nothing.

I'd started with a simple google search, back when I'd first got Eric's letter. When that hadn't yielded anything useful, I'd started looking into any public records which were accessible over the internet – not many for Louisiana, as it turned out. I knew he wasn't in prison, and he hadn't shown up in any obituaries, either. I'd quickly given in and called Finn for help, which had now turned out to be a dead end. I'd even written to Eric asking for more information about his family, but I hadn't heard back from him yet. I wasn't sure where to go from there.

I threw my head back onto my pillows, and lay with my forearm over my eyes, feeling frustrated with myself. After all my indecision, stressing about the morality and possible consequences of helping Eric, it turned out I might not be any use to him anyway.

Eventually, finding I wasn't tired enough to go back to sleep, I sat up, and then shuffled into the kitchen in my pyjamas to get breakfast. I saw that Amelia had already left, which wasn't unusual for her. There was a note inviting me to a movie with her and her boyfriend Bob, but I already had plans with Maria and Kennedy, and I wasn't sure if I'd be free in time for the movie.

I had a rueful expression on my face, wondering what Maria would think of my failure. Of course, we wouldn't be able to talk about it around Kennedy. Then I felt a twinge of guilt about keeping secrets. I hated secrets, and I was a terrible liar - if anyone asked me the right questions, I would spill the beans about Eric. I would have to work on that small flaw, if I was going to make a career out of criminology. Confidentiality was crucial – both mine and that of the people I'd be working with.

By 9:30, I was leaving my apartment. Though the park where I was meeting my friends was a short walk from the university, it was across town from where I lived, so I took my car. I also took the opportunity to drive via the post office, so that I could check my post box. I knew it was pointless on a Sunday, but I couldn't help myself. I really wanted to solve this mystery, and I hoped that Eric's reply would hold some clues. Unfortunately, as I'd expected, there was no mail for me. Driving on to the park, I pushed away all thoughts of Sam Northman.

I regretted bringing my car when I realised that all the parking spots were taken for several blocks around. Even this early in the day, the park was full of fairgoers. I started to feel glad that Finn had woken me early – if I'd turned up any later, I might have given up and gone home. It was a nice day for the time of year, and a lot of people had obviously been lured out by the promise of spending a day in the sun, eating cotton candy and buying brightly coloured junk from craft stalls. My Gran had loved this kind of thing, and she had spent most of her time at fairs working behind a stall, fundraising for her church group's latest project. Missing her, I felt glad that Kennedy had insisted that Maria and I come to this event.

It was out of character for her, wanting us to hang out at the local fair – she usually spent her free time in fashionable clothing stores, when she wasn't at a bar drinking brightly coloured cocktails, whatever the time of day. She was a design student, and very much played the part. It might seem like we didn't have much in common, but she'd been one of my best friends since we'd met on campus in our first year. She was bold and bubbly, open in a way I could never be. She had a huge capacity for compassion, and a great sense of fun. We came from similar backgrounds, though her childhood had not been marred by tragedy as mine had.

Today, she was working at a bake sale to raise money for some kind of animal rights charity, and she wanted me and Maria to keep her company. She'd also begged us to buy all her cookies if it looked like no one else would.

By now, I'd made it to the fair entrance, and I paid the fee to get in. Confronted with an endless sea of tents and tables and swarming crowds of people, I prepared myself for a long search to get to Kennedy's stall. We hadn't arranged to meet anywhere, since neither Maria nor I were sure when we'd get there. I sent a quick text to both of them, and hoped they'd get back to me soon.

I wandered aimlessly while I waited, looking over what the various stalls had to offer. There were many reminders that Halloween was only a couple of weeks away – pumpkins of various shapes and sizes spread over roped off areas of ground, racks of costumes, and spooky party decorations. Even though Halloween wasn't a big deal for me these days, I still experienced a thrill of excitement in the run up to it each year, thanks to childhood memories of trick-or-treating. I snickered to myself as I thought of Jason, who had only recently given it up. Even as charming as he could be, people had only so much patience for full grown men turning up on their doorsteps with a sack and a hopeful expression. I was a little surprised he hadn't started borrowing someone's kid to take with him.

Standing at an intersection, lost in thought, I started at the loud beep of my phone. It was Maria, "over here – I see you!"

I swivelled around trying to locate her, and finally saw her a few tents back. She was standing to one side of a table behind which the gorgeous Kennedy was gesticulating wildly at a family who were eying her baked goods. Maria was grinning at me, and she shrugged as our eyes met. Obviously Kennedy was in her element, in spite of my doubts. The table was decorated with cute images of dogs and cats, and there was a large cardboard cutout of a pony, which a couple of children were staring at adoringly. Aside from Kennedy, there were 3 other people at the stall, all of them wearing dark green vests with a white slogan scrawled across them.

As I approached, Kennedy sealed the deal with the family, and they left with a large plastic bag full of cookies and muffins. Kennedy beamed at the man working next to her – the only man at the stall. I noted that he was pretty cute, and began to suspect that this could be the reason Maria and I had been roped into this event. Then she noticed me and waved, her smile never dimming. I sped up, and Maria and I were caught up in a hug, Kennedy talking high pitched and non-stop, in-comprehensible.

Some words began to come through clearly, "Sookie! So glad you're here! Maria's been looking lonely! Isn't this exciting!"

Then she was pulling us behind the table with her, and the guy I'd noticed turned towards us and smiled warmly.

"These are my friends Sookie and Maria," Kennedy introduced us, "you'll love them."

Before she could introduce him to us, he turned his smile up an extra watt, and stepped forward to shake both our hands, speaking earnestly, "It's good to meet you Sookie, Maria. I'm Casey." At that point, I noticed his badge, on which was written "Casey – stall manager."

As the other two women at the stall dealt with customers, Kennedy and Casey told us their story, pausing to smile at each other foolishly whenever they spoke at the same time. I was impressed. He was passionate about animal rights, and the environment, and he'd been to a few Occupy Wall Street events. He was charming and inspiring, and the way he finished Kennedy's sentences was adorable. I found myself feeling guilty for not having given up my own time for any good causes. With Gran's example, you'd think I would have been a dedicated volunteer. But somehow, I just never got around to it. There weren't really any causes I felt that passionate about. And I was busy.

As I made excuses to myself in my head, Kennedy and her new friend moved back to serving people, smiling at each other every now and then. Maria and I exchanged a silent 'awwww', and then moved aside to talk without being in the way.

Maria and I spent a fun morning wandering around the fair and occasionally stopping by to see Kennedy. Eventually she joined us, and we had a morning tea of coffee, pretzels, and some of Kennedy's cookies – luckily there weren't too many left to buy. She apologised for Casey, saying he'd wanted to join us, but he couldn't leave while the stall was so busy.

By the time I said goodbye to the girls and headed back to my car, it was past lunch time, and I didn't much feel like a movie on such a nice day. I sent a text to Amelia to let her know I wouldn't show, and went home. I spent the last few hours of sun on the front lawn of our apartment block, reading a fun fantasy book based on ancient history. When Amelia got home, we made dinner together and had a TV night – no CSI, thankfully. When I went to bed, I felt impressed with myself for getting through a whole day without going anywhere near my university work. It was important to take a day off sometimes, but it wasn't something I was usually very good at.

On Thursday, I finally got Eric's reply. I actually cheered 'yes!' to myself as I pulled the envelope out of my post box, but I restrained my urge to punch the air. I waited to open it till I got back to my car, where I ripped the envelope open and pulled out the single sheet of paper. I felt confusion as I saw a single line of Eric's handwriting in the middle of the page:

_I'm not sure what you want to know – I don't have any other family. Eric._

I turned the page over in disbelief, and then dropped it on the seat beside me.

'Seriously, Eric?' I thought to myself. Considering the effort he'd gone to in order to get my attention, he didn't seem particularly interested in the search, judging by the 'letter' he'd sent me. I felt really frustrated now, because I'd put my time and effort into this, and it had all been for nothing so far. Now Eric wasn't even willing to help himself. There had to be at least someone from his past he could have directed me to, someone who might know his brother.

I pursed my lips, tapping the steering wheel impatiently. Then I pulled my phone out, looked up a number, and punched it in angrily. On the other end, a very helpful gentlemen at the Ohio State Penitentiary answered the phone.

About twenty minutes later, I was back at the post office, writing another letter to Eric. It started as a list of terse instructions, but I had enough presence of mind to realise that giving him orders was not going to work out well for either of us. I got another sheet of paper, and reworded the letter as a gracious request. I rolled my eyes at myself, thinking how ridiculous it was that I was practically pleading with Eric to let me go out of my way to help _him_.

Having posted the letter, there was nothing to do but wait for another reply. It turned out that trying to talk to Eric on the phone was ridiculously complicated, but talking to him in person involved filling in a few forms. Oh, and there would be the small matter of driving all day to get to the prison and back, again.

For the moment I'd fulfilled the obligation I felt towards Eric, so I was back to the world of lectures and essays again until I heard from him.

I also managed to catch up with Maria again, and gave her an update on the Eric saga. It was good to have someone to confide in, though she clearly had no idea why I was going to such lengths for him. I couldn't really explain it myself, except that I'd made a commitment, and now I was going to follow it through. I'd always been told I was too stubborn for my own good.

My commitment was rewarded when I got my fastest response from Eric yet – sort of. Some official documents from the prison showed up in my post box a week after I'd sent my letter to Eric and filled in the visitors form. I was now on Eric's list of visitors. Yippee?

I also had a list of rules, and a pamphlet walking me through the whole prison visit experience. Even though I'd already been to the prison once, I read the whole thing from cover to cover. I was still carrying the pamphlet and the letter in my hand when I opened the door to my apartment, getting home for the evening. Seeing Amelia behind the kitchen bench making herself a salad, I did a deer in the headlights impression. It didn't occur to me to simply say hi and casually walk to my room. I felt guilty seeing her, and so I acted it.

Amelia, however, didn't seem to even noticed me come in. Disconcerted, I stuffed the papers into my bag, and greeted her, 'Hi'.

"Hi," She replied, without looking up.

I walked up to the bench, and asked her, 'You ok?"

"Yep."

Figuring she was in a bad mood about something, and having no idea what it was, I left her to it. I hoped she'd let me know if she wanted to talk about it – she wasn't usually shy when she wanted to vent.

As I checked my calendar to work out when would be the best time to visit Eric, I realised I'd have to say something to Amelia, and anyone else who'd notice I was gone. I couldn't exactly say that I felt like a weekend away in Youngstown. I had no idea what was even in Youngstown, apart from the prison. Maria's suggestion that I don't tell anyone about my association with a convicted killer was turning out to be complicated – surely I could at least tell some of my friends what I was up to, and trust that they would understand?

I seriously considered going out into the kitchen again and telling Amelia the whole story. But something held me back. Maybe it was the way she'd joked that day I got back from my interviews at the prison, asking if Eric was 'hot', and then acting all disgusted the next moment. What would she think of his desire to find his brother? What would she think of _my_ desire to help him?

Maria's warning rang in the back of my mind. People would judge me. Once the people in my life knew that I was corresponding with Eric Northman, child murderer, there would be no going back. I shouldn't say anything until I was prepared to deal with that.

So it was that I mentioned my planned trip away to Amelia the next day, leaving out the details and hoping she wouldn't ask too many questions.

She was sitting on the sofa with Bob, her legs in his lap as they ate their breakfast. They both went quiet as soon as I entered the room. It made me nervous, so that I sounded less casual than I'd hoped to when I spoke.

"I've got to go back to the prison for a couple days."

"Fancy that," Amelia replied. She was looking at Bob intently, as she added, "What do you think of that Bob?"

He glanced at her quickly before concentrating on his bowl of cereal again. "Mhhmff," he mumbled as he chewed.

This was weird behaviour, even for Amelia, and not the reaction I'd expected at all. I supposed it was caused by the same thing that had been bothering her the night before, whatever that was.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

She shrugged and didn't answer, refusing to look at me.

"Have I done something to upset you?"

"I don't know, have you?" She replied, sounding snarky.

Baffled, I took a breath, preparing to push further. Then I thought better of it. Again, I hoped that she'd tell me what was wrong when she felt like it.

"Alright, I guess we can talk about it later. Do you guys want to come with me to Kennedy's Halloween party on Tuesday?"

Bob shook his head at me with an apologetic expression, while Amelia glared. I took the hint, and left. I had some work to do at the library anyway, which I hoped to get done before my midday lecture.

My phone rang half an hour later, when I'd barely sat down at an unoccupied desk in the library. I scooped it out of my bag quickly, meaning to end the call before I got any angry looks from my fellow students. When I saw who was calling, however, I got up to leave instead, answering the call. I tried not to sound too surprised, or irritated. I had just found an important journal article that wasn't available online, and now I'd have to come back for it later – but I couldn't ignore my brother, who almost never called me.

"Jason?"

"Sookie, what the fuck?" He responded, skipping the pleasantries.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and squinted at it in consternation. What was with everyone today?

I replaced the phone against my ear, and spoke reasonably, "Jason, we haven't talked in weeks, and now you're calling to swear at me? What's up?"

"Why don't you tell me." he fired back, "You're best buddies with murderers now?"

Well, shit.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:**

Hello again! It's been a crazy few weeks, but I'm almost finished at uni for the year, hurrah! I hope I will be able to update more over summer, as I enjoy writing this story.

This chapter is set only a week or so after the last one. I have tried to address some concerns expressed in reviews, which conveniently were the same sorts of issues I'd been planning to consider over the course of this story anyway. I'm not entirely sure myself what the 'right' opinion is. So thank you all for your thoughts.

Thanks also to CH for the characters - they are easy to write, because she's made them so believable, and interesting.

**Trigger Warning: **this chapter contains a brief reference to rape, but no description.

* * *

I'd been on the road for an hour. There were still several hours of driving ahead of me before I got to Youngstown. I hadn't got an early start like I had the last time, so I was going to stay the night in a hotel and visit Eric on Sunday morning.

It was a relief to get away from Cincinnati. I smiled grimly to myself, as it appealed to my wonky sense of humour to think that I'd rather talk to a murderer than my flatmate right now. It had been a week since that awful – and short – conversation with Jason. And I had been so angry with Amelia that I couldn't even bring myself to confront her about it, because that would involve talking to her. So it had been an awkward, quiet week at the apartment. Hence the prison visit, rather sooner than I'd originally intended.

Jason wasn't talking to me, of course, and although we weren't communicating any less now than we did when he _was_ talking to me, it felt bad to know that we were at odds, especially as I didn't know how to fix it. I didn't think I'd done anything I needed to apologise for, while he felt that I was giving tacit approval to child murderers everywhere, or something. He hadn't explained himself very well on that point.

Halloween had been a real drag, and Kennedy's party had been horrible. Since it was evidently only a matter of time before everyone I knew heard about Eric from Amelia, I decided to tell some of my friends who were at the party a little bit about the work I'd been doing to help a death row inmate get back in touch with his family. Kennedy, brilliant and compassionate Kennedy, looked confused and unsure. The group of people around me evaporated, except for Casey. He spoke slowly, concern dripping from every word, as he explained that men like Eric liked to take advantage of naive young women like me.

When Maria showed up to rescue me, our conversation was weird and stilted. My initial enthusiasm at her arrival turned to suspicion, and I asked her if she'd seen Amelia recently. She shrugged and shook her head, obviously confused by my demeanour. I was immediately furious with myself, and resolved to say nothing else to her about it. I knew she'd never do such a thing, couldn't believe I'd doubted her. Except... how the hell had Amelia found out?

And now here I was, on my way to see Eric. I had been concentrating on my university work, and my promise to him, and hoping the whole thing would blow over with my group of friends, and Jason.

At least the work I'd been doing was interesting. As in, totally absorbing. Having done some background research, I'd been comparing the responses of my death row interviewees, in particular their motivations and justifications.

John Quinn had killed the two men who had raped his mother. He'd also killed several of their friends, who had the bad luck to be there when Quinn turned up at the suburban house where they were all watching football together. When I'd talked to him, he'd been pragmatic about it. Not regretful exactly, but quick to admit that he'd 'fucked up', as he put it. He was adamant that he didn't care what happened to him, but he was worried about his much younger sister, who had been faithfully visiting him every week for 4 years, ever since she was old enough to drive herself. He'd been in prison for 8, and wasn't sure how much longer he'd be around for her.

Bill Compton was full of bitterness. He'd killed one of his teenaged history students, after a prank gone wrong. He'd caught the slowest of a group running from his house, hitting him with his car, and then beating his head against the surface of the road until his wife pulled him off. He was divorced now, his mother Lorena his only regular visitor. Speaking urgently, forcefully, he'd leaned forward until his forehead was right up against the glass, insisting that a man had to defend his home. It was instinct. He hadn't been able to think straight. It was a terrible tragedy, and why the hell had those stupid kids not realised what would happen if they messed around like that? Not even kids anymore, young adults, and they should have known better.

I'd seen and heard enough in my three years studying criminology that I didn't think to judge him, or argue with him. But not so much that I didn't have to suppress a shiver as I looked into his earnest, shining eyes and thought of the 16 year old boy running for his life.

JB du Rone was the most perplexing. He'd shot a man he barely knew, and got the death penalty because the jury found that he'd been paid to do it. He smiled a lot. It was difficult to get him to talk about what he'd done, not because he refused to talk about it, but because he kept drifting off topic. He'd told me all about how beautiful his ex-girlfriend was, and what a great mother she was. He was so proud of his 7 year-old daughter, who'd been born shortly after his arrest. He didn't see her often, because she lived so far away. But her mother brought her every year, staying in Youngstown and visiting several days in a row, as the rules allowed for visitors from out of town. JB got a short letter every week, written at school with the help of a teacher, and a hand drawn picture at the bottom of every one.

In the end, I'd learned a lot about his daughter, but not much about his crime. I couldn't bring myself to mind.

Then there was Eric, who I knew the least about. He hadn't talked to anyone else either, as far as I could tell. Oh, there were plenty of articles about his crimes, about the trial, about the on-going appeals. But nothing from him, not about his past, or how he viewed himself, or any of the many questions I would have asked him. I was trying really hard to stop seeing him as a research subject, but the deeper I got into my essay, the more unanswered questions I had.

I gripped the steering wheel harder, and reminded myself firmly that I was only going to ask about his family, and only to find out what I needed to track down his brother.

After a very long day, I arrived at the same hotel I'd stayed at before. I was exhausted, and I couldn't believe I'd managed a half day of interviews after the drive the last time I was there. The excitement had probably kept me going. This time round, I was certainly eager to find out what I could about Eric's family. But I also knew exactly what was waiting for me the next day, and I wasn't looking forward to going back to that horrible place, or talking to Eric in person again. He really was scary.

And yet, the next day turned out not to be quite as horrible as I'd thought it might be. I wasn't taken by surprise like I had been last time. Some of the guards were just as rude and intimidating, but I hadn't been expecting anything else. And Eric was different this time. Not less scary, but less hostile.

When he picked up the phone on his side, he responded to my greeting with a smile. The expression was tenser than last time, but more genuine too.

"Will you be able to find him?" He asked immediately, and then his jaw clenched, like he hadn't wanted to say that.

"I don't know," I said honestly, "I've made several attempts, but so far there's no sign of him anywhere. That's why I need you to tell me more about him."

Eric combed his hand through his hair, leaving bits of it sticking out in odd directions. He was definitely less calm than when I'd last seen him.

"I don't know anything about him," he responded, frustrated, "I haven't seen him or heard from him in 13 years."

"But if there are any family or friends I could ask, who might still be in touch with him..."

Eric snorted, and tossed his head, "No."

I sat silently, feeling awkward. I didn't know what questions I could ask without bringing up painful memories. Not for the first time, I wondered what I'd got myself into. At the same time, I was more determined to find his brother than ever. I'd thought _my_ family was screwed up – clearly mine had nothing on his. How could he possibly have no one in his life at all?

As I was searching for something to say, Eric sighed, and his face changed as he visibly composed himself. The blank, bored expression I'd seen last time I was here was back. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and quiet.

"Our dad, Kelly Northman, died years ago. I didn't know my mother, she left when I was very young. Sam's mom died when I was seven. Dad didn't have any living family – not that I knew of, anyway."

I resisted the urge to tell him my parents had both died when I was young, that I knew how it felt to lose your family. This was no time for bonding over our crap childhoods.

"That really sucks, Eric," I said instead, and I meant it.

He shrugged.

I was quiet a moment, thinking about what I'd just learned. I hadn't realised Sam and Eric were half brothers. Maybe Sam had other family that Eric hadn't mentioned.

"What about Sam's mom? Did you know her family? Can I get in touch with them?"

He shook his head, "They weren't interested in us. We saw them at the hospital a few times, and the funeral. That was it. Dad didn't like them."

I kept pushing, "But they might have lived in the same area? They might have got in contact with Sam again at some point?"

"I doubt it."

"We don't have a lot to go on right now Eric. It's better than nothing. What was Sam's mom's last name?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, in concentration, and then shook his head, "I don't remember it, if I ever knew. She changed her name when she married Dad."

I took a deep breath, trying not to show how frustrated I was. It felt like we were so close. "Would there be any family friends, or acquaintances even, who know anything about her?"

"I'm sure some of dad's old friends would know more about her. I wouldn't know where to find any of them though."

I had Eric give me a few names to try to track down, though I didn't know how much good it would do. Then I turned the conversation back to Sam again, hoping to turn up some other useful piece of information.

"So where was he when you guys fell out of contact? Did he move away or something?"

Eric looked away, "I did."

"So he was still in Shreveport, last you knew?"

"Yep."

"He would have been a teenager still, right?" I queried, having done some quick arithmetic in my head.

"He was fifteen."

"So he was still at home when you left?"

"No," He said quickly.

"Oh...kay," I responded, confused, "where was he living then?"

He hesitated for a moment before answering, "with me."

"Right," I resisted the urge to ask how this unusual arrangement came about, "Right, so, he stayed at the same place after you left?"

"I'm not sure."

His voice was getting quieter, and his answers slower. He obviously didn't enjoy talking about this, and I felt like I should stop asking questions – on the other hand, Eric had shown last time we'd met that he was more than capable of letting me know if he didn't want to talk. Either way, there didn't seem much left to learn.

"So he didn't correspond with you at all after you left, and he might have stayed where he was," I summed up. "You didn't go back at all yourself? He might even still be in Shreveport?"

"That's about right."

I gathered up the pen and notebook I'd been permitted to bring in with me, preparing to leave. "It's not much to go on Eric."

He nodded, resigned.

"I'll look into the names you gave me though. I'll try to find him." I started to stand, and then sat down again, feeling awkward. There was a difficult subject I needed to broach with him. I didn't want to, but it would come up sooner or later. We both needed to be upfront about it. "Eric, if I _do_ find him, have you thought about the possibility that he won't be interested? It's been 13 years, and he hasn't come looking for you."

I cringed internally at how blunt that sounded, but he didn't seem upset. In fact, he smiled slightly as he answered.

"He's probably still mad at me. But I think he'll want to see me, if he knows I want to see him."

I wondered how he could be so sure, when he hadn't talked to the guy since he was a teenager. But I just smiled back, told him I hoped he was right, and said goodbye.

I walked out of there feeling more conflicted than ever. I drove straight back to Cincinnati from the prison, so I was alone with my thoughts for a long time. What troubled me the most now was that I really felt for Eric. I _wanted_ to find his brother, and I really hoped that his brother would want to know him again.

Before this visit, I'd only been doing what I thought was right, what I thought my Gran would do in my shoes, helping someone who had no one else to turn to. Now, my feelings were more complicated. As someone who'd never felt truly welcome in my own family, and lost my parents at a young age, I could relate to how lonely Eric must feel. At the same time, I knew I'd crossed a line, connecting to Eric in a way I'd never intended – and that was something I didn't feel comfortable with.

I'd never felt the need to judge Eric for what he'd done, or shun him. I felt very strongly that he still deserved to be treated like a fellow human being. But I never forgot what he'd done, and I never justified it. Now here I was worrying about his family, when he'd destroyed several himself.

With Maria's help, I'd decided I was comfortable with my decision to help Eric find his brother. Now I was doubting myself all over again, because I really was disgusted by what Eric had done, and I wasn't sure what it said about me, that I could nonetheless have some kind of fellow feeling with him. I genuinely felt that Eric belonged where he was, locked away where he couldn't hurt anyone else. But, I didn't want _him _to hurt more than he had to, if I could do something to alleviate it. And I was honest enough with myself to admit that that was a problem.

I knew I should talk to Claudine about all this, but there was only one way that would end – at the counsellor's office again. I hadn't been entirely comfortable with that the first time, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to go again. Not to mention, my honours essay was going really well, and I didn't want to jeopardise my grade by alerting the faculty to the fact that I was having difficulty remaining emotionally detached. Just a day ago I'd struggled not to see Eric as a research subject, and now I was struggling to remind myself that he was a dangerous, merciless criminal. Merciless enough to kill a child. I was so terribly confused.

I was hoping I could go straight to bed when I got back, but I found Amelia waiting for me in the living room. I knew she was waiting for me, because she was reading a book, when she would usually be watching TV. I still tried to go straight past her to the bathroom, but as I'd expected, she looked up and started talking.

"We need to talk," she said, and her expression was serious, and a bit regretful.

"Do we?" I responded, tired.

"Sookie, you've made friends with a child murderer, and I'm not ok with that. But we've been friends for a long time, and we live together. So we need to talk." She sounded so reasonable.

"Amelia," I spoke slowly and carefully, "I have just got home. I have had a very long weekend. In fact, I've had a long week. I don't want to have a conversation about this right now, and I actually don't think that my contact with Eric is any of your business." I realised now that this is what I should have said from the start, rather than simply ignoring her.

"None of my business?" she curled her lip, "one of my best friends is all buddy-buddy with a guy on death row, and it's none of my business?"

"Yes, that's right." I answered, and walked right past her. Then I thought of something I'd been wondering about, and stopped to ask her, "how do you even know about Eric? Because I know I didn't tell you about him."

For the first time, she looked guilty. "It wasn't intentional..."

"What wasn't intentional?" I asked, sharply.

"I was doing the dishes, and I went into your room to see if there were any mugs in there. I saw a letter on your desk from him..." I sucked in my breath in anger, and she hurried on, "I looked up his name on the internet, and I was worried about you. I couldn't understand why you would be writing to him. And there was this folder in your bookcase labelled 'Ohio State Penitentiary'..."

My outrage choked me, and I barely spluttered out, "you told Jason?"

"He had a right to know."

I thought very carefully before I spoke again. I was furious enough to tell her to get the hell out of my apartment. But even if it was technically mine first, I couldn't really ask her to move out right this moment. I didn't have anywhere to go myself either, so flouncing out dramatically was not an option. With my scholarship and the money from my family, and Finn, I lived more comfortably than many students, but I still had to be sensible. So as much as it burned, I moderated my response.

"I am going to start looking for a new apartment. I suggest you do the same."

I left the room as she protested, and went straight to bed.


End file.
